


A temporary affliction

by ellamason



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Loss of Control, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/pseuds/ellamason
Summary: Valjean's evening walk is pulled into turmoil when he is overcome by a strange force.





	A temporary affliction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/gifts).



> I've tagged this with 'dubious consent', which I hope is okay because you had some non-con prompts and mentioned that dark fic is welcome. I'm not certain whether this qualifies as just sex pollen-related dubcon or if it's full-blown dubious consent, so please proceed with caution if that's not something you want to read. But I certainly hope this is relevant to your sex polleny interests.

Jean Valjean was accustomed to walking in the evening. Since his earliest days in Montreuil sur Mer, he had made it a habit. The stillness of a once-busy street drifting into sleep was as familiar to him as the calling of the night birds and the first few stars that dared to light up the dusk. And he knew the restlessness that pricked at his edges if he was shut up inside when the sunlight began to fade, as though his body could not forget what it meant to be hustled indoors against his will.

This, however, was a different sensation altogether.

Night had fully settled on Paris, and he was still unable to settle the churning that was rising within him. It was a prickling heat that clouded his mind, seeming to urge him in meaningless directions. His feet carried him up unfamiliar alleys and around corners he had never remembered turning in the daylight. Occasionally he would try to turn back, set himself on the path back to the Rue de l’Homme Arme. But somehow he would find himself being driven backwards, further into the labyrinth that his familiar city had become.

When his feet carried him into an alley, he forced himself to a halt, exhausted. In the darkness, he could make out nothing but the scattered stars above him and the distant lamplight. His breath was quickening, despite the fact that he had come to a stop, and the soles of his feet ached. He took a long gulp of the heady summer air, still perplexed by the mood that had come over him and the warmth that was seeping through him.

A moment to catch his breath, he thought, and then he would move on. Back to the safety of a locked door. Enough of this foolish wandering.

He was steadying his breath when the little light from the street was abruptly cut off. When Valjean turned his face to the alley’s entrance, he tensed. A broad, tall figure was silhouetted in the light.

“Jean Valjean,” a familiar voice growled. “I should have known you would be behind this.”

Valjean took a step backwards, but there was nothing at the end of the alley but a high, flat wall. Cosette was at home, tucked safely in her bed. He would have to find a way back to her. The wall would not be impossible to scale, but it would not be easy. Or perhaps--

“Oh no,” Javert’s voice rang through the darkness, stepping forward as Valjean twisted away from him.

Valjean had only just begun to move when he felt a firm grip on his wrist. And then, without warning, the cold grasp of iron. So cold it was almost soothing against his overheated skin.

“There,” Javert said. And Valjean should have been prepared when Javert shoved him up against the wall. He should have been ready when his other wrist was wrenched behind his back and locked into the manacles. And each of these things should have filled him with dull terror, but instead he felt his stomach twist in a way that he could not explain. He pressed his cheek against the stone, but the chill was not enough to ward off the heat that rose within him.

“There,” Javert said again. He clasped Valjean’s shoulder, urging him around. In the darkness, most of his features were impossible to make out. But his eyes glittered. “No more disappearing acts from you. I’ve had quite enough of your games for one night.”

Valjean shook his head, trying to find some sense in Javert’s words. But Javert’s body was pressed so close to his, his large hands clasping so tightly at his shoulder, that he could only shake his head and open his mouth.

“I did not think you were the type to practice witchcraft,” Javert said, his voice low. “For all that your piety was an act, I did not imagine--” he laughed out loud then. His breath was hot against Valjean’s cheek, the gentle touch enough to send cruel shivers down the back of his neck. “That is my own fault, I see it now. But you will not make a fool of me, Jean Valjean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh no, not a word,” Javert's hand came up to cover Valjean’s mouth. The flesh of his palm was burning hot. Again the ache that had tugged Valjean to this alley betrayed him , drawing a weak groan from his throat at the contact. Javert snarled at that and shoved him back further, until his trapped hands pressed into the small of his back. “Just what are you playing at?”

Valjean himself was not entirely certain. He could not say how he had fallen into this-- was it a trap? Javert was not behaving like a man who had set out to capture him, but he had caught him nonetheless. Worse, Valjean’s body was sluggish, unable to react to the danger he knew himself to be in. Instead his lips tingled where Javert’s palm was clamped over them, and he could not help but let out an undignified whimper when Javert’s other hand moved to his shoulder and then down to his shirtfront.

“You are overheating,” Javert murmured into the dark. “I wonder, then--”

Those glittering dark eyes pinned him in place more firmly than the manacles. And Valjean groaned again as Javert’s palm flattened against his chest, exploring lower and drawing a line of fire behind. It did not slow or stop until Javert’s hand was firm against Valjean's stomach and Valjean’s mind was in tatters.

“Did you mean for it to work out this way? This trick of yours?” Javert spoke softly. His hand worked deftly, unfastening Valjean’s trousers and untucking his shirt. His own skin was dotted with sweat, Valjean realised now -- the scent of it so close to his nose was filling his senses, as though he were being driven gently but firmly under a heavy blanket. Javert’s other hand was under his shirt now, his thumb exploring the ridge of Valjean’s hip. “Did you think to bewitch me, drive me to distraction and then take me hostage? You ought to have known better.”

The hand was moving inwards now, mercifully close to the pulse at Valjean’s centre. Javert’s fingertips brushed at the place where his fever and his flesh seemed to have solidified a desperate ache then withdrew. Valjean shuddered and Javert huffed a warm breath, stepping closer.

“Well then,” he said. “Perhaps I am not the only one of us afflicted.” And he gripped Valjean’s hips with both hands and pressed closer, his hardness grinding into Valjean’s thigh.

Valjean squeezed his eyes closed and released a shuddering breath. But just as the night air seemed as though it might clear his mind, Javert’s mouth was on his, one hand steadying his head with a too-hot palm and the other shoving his trousers to his ankles. And then a moment later, the heat withdrew as Javert took a step back. And there was nothing but the darkness and the chill of iron around his wrists and Javert’s eyes on his exposed flesh.

He could not form words. He could barely make out the shape of Javert, let alone his expression. When a hand came forward to push up his shirt, he did not resist it or turn away. A quiet voice in the back of his mind was whispering about shame and danger and urging him to flee. But it was drowned out by the heat that surged within him as Javert’s fingers followed the trail of hair on his chest and stomach down again. And he could not resist the urge to tilt his hips forward as Javert’s hand came down to settle on his heavy prick, thumb swiping over the pooling fluid and spreading it over aching flesh.

“This is a strange sort of trap,” Javert said. And for the first time that night, he sounded uncertain. And Valjean still had enough of his wits about him to grunt an agreement. But when Javert’s hand closed him, his mind reeled again. He thrust up into Javert’s hand, half terrified of what power he was giving himself over to and half certain that this was the only way to undo its hold over him. He wished, briefly, that his arms were free -- not so that he might escape but so he could use them to pull Javert closer, to press himself into that answering heat. 

Fortunately, Javert was not much better off than him. And he stepped closer, mouthing at Valjean’s throat as he worked Valjean’s prick. His teeth closed around Valjean’s flesh as his grip tightened. And Valjean’s breath came in a shuddering whimper as Javert’s insistent hand undid him.

He slumped against the wall, breath slowing. Javert’s breath was still heavy at his ear and his fingers trailed over Valjean’s cooling flesh, finding the place where his come was pooling on his stomach.

“That was quite a performance,” Javert said, his voice rough. His other hand tightened on Valjean’s shoulder. “Come along then. Face the wall.”

Groggily Valjean turned as he was bid, pressing his cheek against the stone. The voice in the back of his mind was whispering a muted warning, but he was boneless, exhausted and blissful. Javert’s hand traced the shape of his hips, tracing down over his cheek and leaving a wet trail. Valjean jerked a little in concern, but then Javert’s hand was moving between his thighs, spreading his own slickness across his skin.

“Don’t think I’m under any illusions,” Javert grated, his mouth close to Valjean’s ear as Valjean heard the rustle of clothing behind him. “Restraint is wasted on you. _Generosity_ means nothing to the likes of--” A shuddering exhale. And then his prick was between Valjean’s legs, solid and insistent and painless and intrusive all at once. 

“Squeeze your thighs,” Javert whispered roughly. One hand was in Valjean’s hair, neither pulling nor stroking. The other was on his hip. But Valjean was boneless, his hands bound and his muscles turned useless by pleasure and affliction. “Your thighs, Valjean.”

“I cannot.” The words sounded faint to his own ears.

Javert made a low, urgent sound at that, and again his lips were at Valjean’s throat, sucking and biting as he thrust between slick and trembling thighs. Each thrust pushed Valjean up against the wall, pressed his face against cold brick as Javert pinioned him forward. Each thrust between his thighs brushed tormentingly up against his balls and his spent prick. The friction was almost enough to rouse him again. And all the while Javert was muttering into the crook of his neck, words that Valjean could feel but could not hear. 

The hand on his hip tightened, fingertips digging into muscled flesh that Valjean had never imagined would ever be touched in such a manner. He exhaled against the wall, thinking of the row of red indentations Javert would leave on his skin. Not the lash of a whip or a bruising blow from a cudgel, but the kind of marks that any man might leave on his lover.

This, at last was too much.He squeezed his eyes closed against the intrusion of more such thoughts. And as he did so, Javert’s hand tightened again. Javert shuddered and exhaled. The prick between his thighs jerked and spilled onto Valjean's flushed skin.

Javert drew his prick back through Valjean's legs, smearing come between his thighs. Valjean took a gulping breath as Javert’s prick brushed wetly between his cheeks for a moment, but soon withdrew. Then all the heat was gone, and his mind was clearing. And he was nothing but a half-undressed convict, chained up in an alley and smeared with streaks of sweat and come. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Would Javert take him to the prefecture in this condition? Would he at least be allowed to clean himself before he was locked up?

Javert’s own breath was slowing behind him. Valjean heard the rustle of clothing and the click of his boots against the cobbled floors. A few paces, as though he might leave the alley. And then back, as though he could not pull himself away.

After a moment, Javert was at his back again. His hands closed over Valjean's upper arms, as though testing the strength of them. 

“What was this?” Javert's breath was against his throat again, but it was not burning hot as it had been before. “If you truly were not responsible--”

“A fever,” Valjean breathed against the wall. If the cold iron had provided any relief against the heat, now it was nothing but a cold promise of what must come next. “A temporary madness, nothing more.”

“Madness,” Javert said slowly. “Perhaps it has spread through Paris. No doubt afflicting dozens of innocent citizens.” His hand tightened around Valjean's bicep. “But you are hardly innocent.”

Valjean lowered his head. It was as though the passing of the fever had washed away what remaining hope he had. What was there to say?

“Before you take me,” he said, hearing his own bone weariness in his voice. “Allow me to make provisions for my daughter. Please.”

Javert scoffed behind him, then pulled his hands away. Again Valjean heard the sound of boots against cobblestones and hung his head. How could he object to this treatment? How dare he even mention Cosette now, after putting himself in this dangerous position and accepting Javert's treatment so easily?

A few steps later and Javert was at his back once again.

“No sense in it,” he was muttering to himself. He placed a hand between Valjean's shoulder blades. They stood like that for a moment, Javert's hand rising and falling with each shared breath. “Restraint is wasted on you. One act of generosity is never enough for a convict. No sense in it at all--”

A jingle of metal, and then the manacle around his left wrist was freed. Valjean's breath caught and Javert's grip tightened on his shoulder.

“A spreading sickness. You may be right.” A careful breath. “Do not try to follow me, Valjean. Do not move until I've gone.

Valjean remained perfectly still. He did not even pull his hand free when the second iron was unlocked.

“Something is happening to this city. I must--” Javert's voice was uneasy at his ear. “Do not imagine you owe me a debt, Valjean. I found you once in this city, don't doubt that I will find you again.”

Valjean did not speak. He did not move as Javert pulled away, did not even turn his head until the shadow at the mouth of the alley passed away and the lamplight filtered in.

His skin was cold now, and all he felt was dirt and sweat, the evidence of human endurance that reminded him of the bagne. A musty smell clung to him that he had not noticed before, and he hastily pulled his clothes together. His body felt heavier without the aid of the fever that had urged him towards the alley. His shoulders ached. And yet, with every step he felt a growing sense of bewildered relief, the reality of the danger he had been in feeling more real and insistent than it had done while he had been in chains and under Javert's power.

But why had Javert released him? And when had Javert ever cared for his gratitude?

A temporary madness, he reminded himself. And he slipped into the safety of he dark, open streets.


End file.
